Something Different
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Michandrea, AU. No matter how much you might think you love something, it's nice to have a little something different. Michonne/Andrea unapologetic fluff Rated for some language/suggestion
**AN: This is nothing but pure, silly, fluff. I just wrote it because I wanted to. I got the idea from one of the tumblr AU prompts.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **If you read, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Andrea loved fried cheese more than she was certain any woman with a shred of dignity should ever admit to loving something that was essentially fat, rolled in carbs, and deep fried in a different fat. She also had a pretty firm belief that it was, somehow, unconstitutional to deny someone a bargain deal on food simply because they were currently romantically unattached to another human being.

That's why her "date" had been "on the way" the first four times that the waiter had come by her table to refill her plate of endless appetizers and offer her another drink with which to wash everything down. What Andrea knew, and what she assumed the waiter knew by now since he didn't ask her about it the fifth time he'd dropped by with another basket of mozzarella sticks, was that her "date"—whom the waiter automatically assumed to be a man—wasn't coming. The waiter, of course, pitied her and assumed that she'd been stood up. Andrea didn't feel the least bit sorry for herself since she knew she'd only made up the date to take advantage of their "couple oriented special".

OK. Maybe she felt a _little_ sorry for herself. But it had nothing to do with the imaginary date or lack thereof. At the moment, she was feeling more than a little sorry for herself because, for as much as she loved cheese sticks, she was starting to feel like she'd kill to have something different.

But it was the principle of the thing that kept her eating. She wasn't going to order something else when she'd come here with the distinct plan to take full advantage of the promotion and only the promotion.

It was a matter of pride at this point that kept her eating marinara coated fried fat while she looked around and envied others close by for their different choices.

At a small distance from her, a nice couple was enjoying the same promotion that had brought in most of the people that night. They hadn't made up their dates and, apparently together, they'd made the decision to order the wings. It was, at this moment, a seemingly better decision than Andrea's mozzarella sticks. Between the two of them, the two women were almost making the chicken look like something pornographic. It almost seemed suiting for anyone around them to avert their eyes and not watch them as they sucked down basket after basket of the wings—each of them sucking the bones as clean now as they had when they started eating—because what was happening at the table that the two women shared was almost too intense for a public setting—and it had nothing to do with their relationship.

Andrea wasn't averting her eyes at all, though. In fact, she was acutely aware of the fact that she was staring hard enough that, if she didn't get control of herself, the more petite of the women was going to abandon the chicken long enough to come over and offer Andrea a piece of her mind because her eyes were glued to the woman's partner—the one facing Andrea—for an uncomfortably long period of time.

She'd probably never understand that Andrea, though she found the woman quite attractive, wasn't the kind to make googly eyes at someone who was clearly on a date. Instead, she was really lusting after their appetizer choice and finding her own more and more distasteful as time ticked slowly on.

Finally, though, Andrea reached the moment that most people reach when they're having a meal—especially when that meal consists entirely of cheese sticks—where she though that she'd actually die if she didn't get at least a taste of something different. If nothing else, she needed something to get the taste of mozzarella and breading out of her mouth. She watched as the waiter approached their table, looking more than a little depressed by the prospects of his nightly tips since most of his tables were just filling up on the endless appetizers, and dropped off another basket of chicken wings just before he stepped to Andrea's table and deposited another basket of cheese sticks for her to start on when she finished the ones she hadn't even finished yet.

If she was going to make a move, now was the time to make it.

Andrea got out of her booth, gathered up her drink and the freshest basket of cheese, and walked over to the booth the two women were sharing. Without introducing herself, she slid into the booth and put the basket of cheese on the table.

"Here's the thing," she said, keeping her voice low, "I've been stuck eating these since I got here and—I'm pretty tired of cheese sticks. I have to have something different. And I thought—you two might be a little tired of chicken. So—I thought we could trade. A basket for a basket?"

Both women stared at her, slightly open-mouthed, and Andrea almost laughed to herself when she realized she'd approached them with all the seriousness and decorum of someone arranging a drug deal or a mob hit. Immediately she started shaking her head and uttering out a string of run-together apologies.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry. I know you must think I'm crazy. I'm not. It's just—I thought I really wanted mozzarella sticks. And they're really good but—I think I've eaten my weight in them. And you're just making the chicken look so good so I thought—if you want to—I'd trade you a basket of mine for a basket of yours. And—I'll go back to my table and let you have a—let you..."

Andrea let it just trail off there. She realized how ridiculous she sounded. She realized how absurd the conversation was. She realized how much she should be embarrassed with herself right now. She could only blame the large amounts of grease, which her brain wasn't really used to in such overwhelming quantities, for her bad decisions.

"I'm just going to let you go and...enjoy your date," Andrea said. She slipped out of the booth she'd just slid into and gathered up her basket of cheese sticks and her drink once more. "I'm sorry again," she said, as soon as she'd gotten to her feet. "You're a lovely couple. And—you've made good decisions. All good decisions. In regard to the chicken...I'm going to go. Mozel tov."

Andrea returned to her table and mentally spent a moment with herself, asking herself exactly what had driven her to think that her offer of a "trade" was anything that was even remotely socially acceptable beyond the lunch tables in grammar school. She picked at one of the pieces of cheese, now cooling, and ignored the fact that the very thought of eating it was threatening to turn her stomach even if she wasn't as full as she'd like to be right now.

And a short distance away? The petite woman left the table. Apparently, too, she left it for good because she looped her purse strap over her shoulder and Andrea let her eyes trail after the woman until she walked out of the door of the restaurant. She couldn't bring herself to look at the other woman—the black woman whose features she'd been studying all night as she enjoyed chicken wings with an almost orgasmic expression on her face—because she didn't want to see the woman's irritation over the fact that, more than likely, Andrea had ruined her date with her impromptu decision to behave like she was seven.

So she was surprised when, suddenly, that very same woman sat in the booth across from her and put down a basket of chicken wings. She slid them toward Andrea when Andrea looked up at her and then she drank from the glass she'd brought with her.

Andrea slid the basket of chicken closer to herself with her fingertip, still feeling sheepish, but she didn't take any of the food out of it.

"Did I—ruin it?" Andrea asked.

"Ruin what?" The woman asked, reaching and taking one of the cooling cheese sticks—one that Andrea hadn't begun to destroy—out of the basket.

Andrea laughed to herself and gestured toward the door with her head.

"Your date?" Andrea asked.

The woman across the table smiled at her. The face Andrea had been watching all night looked entirely different with a smile than it had with the enjoyment of the chicken. The woman was even more attractive than Andrea had originally thought—and it wasn't just because she'd come bearing a gift of chicken.

"It wasn't a date," the woman said. "Carol is a friend of mine, but she's not— _that kind_ of friend. I didn't have a date, but I did have a craving for wings. She came with me. She reached her limit."

Andrea raised her eyebrows at the woman.

"I'm sorry for assuming," she said.

The woman shook her head and quickly interrupted Andrea before she could continue any apology for the assumption of her sexual orientation.

"Don't be sorry," the woman said. "I wouldn't have anything _against_ dating Carol, but...I just don't think her _boyfriend_ would be enthusiastic about the idea. And she was full and—you were eating alone. I just thought...maybe I'm the one that should apologize for assuming things..."

Andrea smiled at her and pushed the basket of cheese sticks closer.

"Andrea..." she offered.

"Michonne," the woman returned.

"You like mozzarella sticks?" Andrea asked.

Michonne nodded.

"As it turns out, I do," Michonne said. "And—I was getting pretty tired of chicken wings. It's—uh—it's always nice to have a little something different."


End file.
